


the chore wheel

by thescyfychannel



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Multi, as do dave and karkat, but they're all humans so what's the deal with that, eridan and sollux have a hatemance going on, mentions of past misuses of laundry rooms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 09:56:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11102148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescyfychannel/pseuds/thescyfychannel
Summary: The most heinous torture device ever invented comes in the form of a wheel, and it was invented by the person you usually call "babe".





	the chore wheel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SlaveToMyKeyboard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlaveToMyKeyboard/gifts).



> I love domestic settings, whether its meteorstuck, post game, on alternia with all of them as trolls, humanstuck or some other AU with a mix of species. Funny and fluffy is my ideal mixture! But I love these guys together so I'm not too fussy. I'd prefer Dave(black)karkat(red)eridan(black)sollux, but like I said I'm not too picky! It can be a four-way moirallegence, some sort of ashen rotatory, or just four human boyfriends!

One of the downsides to living with three other dudes, as you’ve very swiftly learned, is the sheer amount of laundry that accumulates. If this were some kind of roommate setting, instead of the rapidly changing clusterfuck of a bromantic-romance the four of you have going on, it wouldn’t be so bad. Every man for himself kind of thing. You’re picturing absolutely _epic_ rolling chair jousts over who gets the dryer on what day, and bets on how fucking long Ampora would need for his stupid uniforms.

 _Unfortunately_ , this isn’t the case. The “No Holds Barred Brawl” approach was eschewed in favor of a completely different, _much_ more dreaded, tactic.

 _The Chore Wheel_.

 

You had Vantas to thank for it, even if the other guys had (grudgingly) backed him up on it. As far as you could tell, the only reason they weren’t complaining _more_ was that no one wanted to piss your sort-of-shared-and-mutual boyfriend off, a reason you couldn’t judge on account of _you_ feeling exactly the same way. Sure, he was cute when he got all worked up, but there were _lines_ , and not every line should be crossed, even if it _could_ be crossed. Also, it usually meant someone had to sleep on the couch, and like _fuck_ were you letting it be _you_.

(But really though. So fucking adorable when he was pissed. Hot, too.)

Back to the downsides. At the moment, the “laundry room” in the house you all rented together was _packed_ with clothes. Approximately five-ish hampers worth, by your count—oh my _god_ , Ampora included special instructions on his—and all of them smelled like the arse-end of nowhere. You’d voted for buying a communal gas mask, and been voted down, three to one. Maybe next time it was Ampora’s turn, you could get it to a stalemate, call in a neutral, unrelated, _unbiased_ arbiter. Something like that.

(...then again, probably not. Vantas had the poor bastard wrapped around his little finger. Asshole.)

The “laundry room” got quotations, primarily based on the fact that it was partially colonized by all of the awkward-sized shit everyone needed somewhere to store, and partially based on the fact that it was a lot bigger than the standard laundry room size. It had been the site of no less than three drunken hookups, two hate make out sessions, and, in one memorable, post-cleaning-frenzy incident, a _spectacular_ fourway. Captor had banned you guys from using a blacklight anywhere near the damn place. Not that you’d _want_ to, but the John-influenced Prankster’s Gambit part of your heart sort of wanted to see if you could pass that shit off as modern art and get it into one of the hipster galleries around here.

(And _no_ , you’re _not_ a hipster. You only know about this shit because working at a local coffee shop would give _anyone_ connections within the—you know what, fuck off.)

Good memories aside, you’re definitely not getting out of this shit. Which means it’s time to get to work, whatever your religious or philosophical stance on laundry might happen to be.

(You tried that last month. Fell through, big time.)

Coffee shops and DJ gigs, along with various other odd jobs and swordfights (don’t ask), tend to make for pretty decent arm muscles. You’re still fairly certain you came _pretty close_ to spraining some shit along the way, and by the time you’ve gotten the darks and the lights and the colors all separated out, you can hear the dulcet tones of Ampora and Captor’s bickering wafting through the walls, to your little tucked away cubbyhole. The laundry still needs doing, though, and you ignore it, in favor of the contemplation of “accidentally” tossing someone’s tighty whities in with a red.

 

It’s probably for the best you don’t. See, one _other_ feature of the laundry room, and of laundry day, is that none of these other assholes can _quite_ resist the temptation to peek in.

 

Ampora caves first. When Eridan pokes his head around the corner, it’s with a little less of the stick that he usually carries firmly lodged up his ass, and a little more nervous fluster. Kinda cute on him, honestly, even as he scoots into the room, glancing over the heaps of “to do” and the pile of “just done” you’re working on. Both the washer and dryer are going, full steam ahead, and you glance up at him over the shirt you’ve just neatly folded.

(Vantas had declared it “good enough for retail”, and you insisted that such a heinous insult couldn’t go unchallenged.)

“You, uh,” he starts, then stops to duck his head slightly, glance around the room, searching for something. When he doesn’t see his uniforms, he peeks up at you again. Kid’s come a long way from the stories you heard about him, and honestly? You’re kind of proud. “Did you, uh. See my note about the—I didn’t want to _impose_ or anythin’, but, I was sorta worried that–”

“Saw it, followed it to the letter, pulled up Google to triple check on the shit you weren’t sure of,” you drawl, and he flushes slightly. “It’s all in the wash right now.” For all that he’s got an accent and a half, you _love_ the way he gets flustered by yours.

Eridan nods his thanks, and leans up against the wall, snagging a pair of pants to fold along the way. He frowns down at them—Sollux’s, you think—then huffs, and does it military-neat anyway. “Thanks. It’s a pain in the ass, honestly, but, uh. Military, and all.”

(He’s in NROTC, and really, with how many names belong on the “blame” list for his uniforms being dirty, you can’t and won’t complain about special instructions.)

“Don’t worry about a thing, darlin’,” you tell him, and he makes the _cutest_ noise.

 

The moment Eridan arrived, you started off your internal timer. Your sense of time borders on fucking _phenomenal_ , and it’s been one of the best assets to your music career so far. Hard to beat a DJ who knows _exactly_ when a note should hit or the beat should drop.

Accounting for significant others is a slightly different kind of timekeeping, but you manage it just as well, and when you tick past the twelve minute mark of Eridan sorting through socks for matches and mates, Sollux shuffles in. The uniforms have just come out of the wash, and you’re frowning over the next set of instructions—half of them, the ones still in the “oh god use extra soap” pile, are good to go—some of which appear to be partially written in French. “Eridan, what’d you mean for—oh, hey Sollux.”

(For all of his bitching about wanting and needing his _space_ , you’ve seen how lost he gets when he’s _really_ alone, and _gods_ does it make your heart ache.)

“Oh my god, DV, if you’re trying to make out his shitty-ass handwriting with your shades on again, I’m going to tell KK, so help me–” He plucks the note out of your hand, to the tune of a hiss from Eridan. The two of them play at fighting so often that you’ve all grown accustomed to it. When it comes to emotional constipation, standard emotional confessions of love don’t quite seem to work. “Holy _shit,_ ED, it’s not too late to change your major, you could go to medical school with a scrawl this bad.” Sollux lisps through his s-sounds and x-sounds, and drops a snicker in at the end, and you nudge him with your elbow.

“If you can translate it, honey-lemon, hop to it. I’ve got at least three more loads to run before the end of today.” Sollux rolls his eyes, and starts manhandling the sopping wet uniforms onto the PV cord clothesline that Eridan jury-rigged up on one of his free days. You, as insightful as you are, abscond to Eridan’s quickly vacated corner to match more socks, as Eridan nearly stomps over to insist that Sollux is doing it _wrong_.

 

Vantas is the last to arrive. Usually he’d be the first, but A. it’s you doing the laundry, B. he had work, and C., he _never_ misses a chance to fuck with you. Bastard.

Karkat saunters in with a box full of pastries, smelling like he just walked out of heaven, and raises an eyebrow. “The whole fucking point of a chore wheel, Strider,” he says, dropping each syllable like an all-caps sermon, “is that everyone does their _own_ chores. I’d _ask_ how you roped these two assholes into helping you, but I’m _pretty fucking sure_ I don’t want to know.”

(You repeat, and expand: _hypocritical bastard_. Last time it’d been _his_ week, he’d practically _pouted_ that you weren’t there until fifteen minutes into his suffering.)

“Well,” you reply, snapping out the shirt you’re holding— _his_ shirt, no less—before bringing it back up against your chest, to finish off the clean-crisp folds, “it’s still a sight less lonely with everyone’s bright and shining faces ‘round here.”

Eridan’s got his uniforms hung, with Sollux’s unsurprisingly meticulous—damn coders and programmers—assistance, and they’re currently sorting through under armor and other shit, for what can and can’t go in on heat. They’re pretending not to notice—scratch that, Eridan glances between the two of you, and his hand darts out to grab one of Karkat’s sugary offerings. It’s promptly stuffed in Sollux’s mouth, the second he tries to open it. Good fucking call, Ampora, score one for Team Sanity.

Karkat scowls, at them, and at you, then hefts himself up onto the counter, right next to the donuts. “Jackass,” he informs you, tugging one of the unfinished piles an inch or two closer to him, “I fully expect to see you here in two week’s time.”

“Count on it, babe,” you say, just to watch the way his ears burn bright red.

 

One of the downsides to living with three other dudes, as you’ve very swiftly learned, is the sheer amount of laundry that accumulates. The upside, though, as you’ve discovered over time, is that no matter _what_ kind of chore wheel your sort-of-boyfriend makes, you’re _never_ going to get stuck doing this shit alone.

**Author's Note:**

> this wasn't the first fill I had in mind to do, on account of the fact that I wasn't sure I could! and then laundry day hit...and with it, _inspiration_
> 
> I hope you like this, and happy polyswap!!


End file.
